It's Not a Dream When Your Eyes are Open
by Ohnann
Summary: It's a cold day, and James is having trouble separating dream from reality.


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**It's Not a Dream When Your Eyes are Open**

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**by Ohnann (ohnann(at)kittymail.com)**

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The wall was cold and hard against James's back, yet he pressed himself against it. When he placed a bare hand on it, the texture of the stone was even more raspish than usual, since it was covered in small, hard clumps of frost. He was leaning against the very castle itself. He used to return to the same place, every now and then, when he needed something steadfast to support his back.  
  
Usually, he came there to think, but this time it was for another reason; it was the last afternoon before the Christmas holidays, and the Gryffindor quidditch team had challenged the Ravenclaw team on a snowball fight, right in front of the main entrance.  
  
Before they knew it, other members of the battling houses had joined in, accompanied by a few curious Hufflepuffs, and a couple of ferocious Slytherins. Things had taken an ever nastier turn, when Sirius used a homemade charm that made the Gryffindor ammunition about as amenable and easy to handle as bludgers. And then, Hagrid had come running, making each and all flee from his snowballs, as they were about the same size – and shape – as baby sea elephants.  
  
Forty minutes after the five members of each team had come out to fight, James was hiding. Not because he was a coward, but because the Slytherins had somehow managed to hex their balls into exploding upon contact – with James, and James alone.  
  
He listened intently for the sound of feet shuffling through the five or six inches of snow covering the entire Hogwarts area. But he couldn't hear anything, except the howling wind. The others – friend and foe alike – were most likely too occupied with avoiding the projectiles Hagrid threw around, or Sirius randomly compliant ones, to bother looking for him.  
  
It was very cold outside. The consistency of the snow was not ideal for a snowball fight, but none of the giddy students had cared, happily forcing the snowflakes to stick together with all kinds of dubious techniques, most craving the use of various spells and charms.  
  
James covered his frozen hands with the sleeves of his shirt and sweater, since he'd take off his robes to have something to sit on in the snow. His glasses slid down to the tip of his nose when he looked down; the spectacle frame was so cold against his skin that it felt red-hot. Swiftly, he took the glasses off, and placed them on the middle of his head, where they immediately disappeared in the untamed mass of hair.  
  
He leaned back again; the hair in the back of his head and neck became damp, as the frost on the wall began to melt upon contact with his warm skin. He shuddered as ice cold water slid down his neck and further down the length of his back, but willed the feeling away and closed his eyes, letting the pale afternoon sunshine wash over him.  
  
After a while, he heard just what he had expected ever since he first got there – the sound of steps approaching. He wondered if he'd dozed off, since the steps were too close for him to have time to react. Thus, he decided that it was best to pretend not to have noticed that someone drew near. He stiffened, though, partially expecting the voice of a sly Slytherin to wash over him.  
  
"James?" A voice said, but it was not sly, and definitely not belonged to a Slytherin.  
  
He opened his eyes slowly. "Evans?" he said, making a horrible stifling sound which caused a deep blush to creep over his cheeks.  
  
"Did I wake you? You look a little drowsy."  
  
"No! I... was just pretending!" He hurried to place his specs back on the bridge of his nose, when he noticed that Lily's lovely features had run into each other, turning into a red, green and beige blur. There was one part of James's glasses that had managed to stay of out his hair – that fraction was utterly cold, and James had to dig as many of his upper teeth as possible into his lower lip to keep himself from yelping.  
  
"Are you going home for Christmas?" Lily asked, crouching down beside him.  
  
"Yeah, I am," James said, regaining some of his self-confidence. "Facing piles of food, a big tree, presents, family get-togethers, and all that."  
  
Lily smiled. "Pretty much the same for me." She pushed a few strands of ginger hair behind an ear, fixing her wondrous green eyes on his.  
  
"Why... are you here?" James finally asked, knowing that he'd wake up every morning during the entire holiday and hate himself if he didn't take the chance when it presented itself.  
  
But Lily just continued to smile, wrapping her Gryffindor scarf tighter around her neck. "This must be the coldest day so far, don't you think?"  
  
"It might be... but there was one morning, during quidditch practise, when one's breath nearly froze as soon as it had left the mouth..."  
  
"You look really cold," she stated.  
  
When James gave it some thought, he realized that the tip of his nose – which had gone numb – probably was flaming red, and that his cheeks were bound to be heading in the same direction.  
  
"That was why I came here when I saw you," Lily continued, "wouldn't want you to freeze to death..."  
  
"You wouldn't?" he blurted out, regretting his rashness as soon as the words had left his mouth.  
  
"No, I wouldn't. As strange as that may sound..." She sounded patient, calm. Neither of them had raised their voice even once; they were actually having a polite conversation, though a little odd one.  
  
Without further notice, she pulled off her grey woollen glove, and reached out towards him. James would have drawn back, if not the entire wall behind him had been in the way.  
  
The tips of her fingers burned like fire against his cold skin; Lily dragged them across his cheek lazily, without any pressure to speak of. The closest experience James could compare the feeling with, was the tickling of a quill on skin. He closed his eyes, so that he would be able to concentrate on the sensation alone.  
  
Suddenly, Lily stopped, and placed her entire palm against his skin; it was very warm. Pleasant warmth had just begun to spread through James's body, when the hand suddenly was gone.  
  
A soft whimper escaped James at the loss of the touch, but he was unable to find out why she stopped; somehow his entire body seemed to have turned against him; his limbs felt heavy, the eyelids refused to open. He would have been certain that he was sleeping in his warm bed, hovering between sleep and awakening, if it hadn't been for the cold winds washing over him, and his burning cheek.  
  
"James! Jamie!"  
  
Someone shook him furiously, and he pushed his eyelids open slowly; they felt very, very heavy. Darkness surrounded him; the sun had given in to the night. It was even colder. "Huh?"  
  
It was Sirius, kneeling beside him, a strange, reproachful look on his face. "It's dinner. Christmas dinner."  
  
"Dinner?"  
  
"Yes! How can you sleep _out here_? At first I feared one of Hagrid's missiles had hit you, and that you just had been able to drag yourself here before passing out..."  
  
"You have a hyperactive imagination," James muttered, as he allowed his best friend to help him to his feet.  
  
"Just imagine the epitaph; in memory of James Potter, dead at the tender age of 16, cause of death: _sleeping outside during winter_." Sirius took a deep breath, and put on a more concerned face. "Seriously, are you all right? Nothing frostbitten?"  
  
James brought a hand to his nose and cheeks, making sure that everything was in place.  
  
He bent down to pick up his robes, absentminded, while trying to search for Lily's footprints, without Sirius noticing it. He couldn't find any; but then again, it had been windy, and snow had been pressed against the wall – and himself– in little drifts. Had it all been a dream? His glasses were on the bridge of his nose again, though, and if he had fallen asleep and dreamt about talking to Lily, they would have been on the top of his head, wouldn't they? Perhaps it had been part daydream, part truth? One could always hope.  
  
"Sirius, is there something... on my cheek?" He pointed to the cheek in question, as the two trudged around the corner to the main entrance.  
  
"What would that be?"  
  
"A mark – like of a hand?"  
  
"No, James. There's nothing on your cheek, except a snowflake or two. Why? Someone gave you a box on the ear?"  
  
James laughed, a little embarrassed. He sauntered inside the castle behind Sirius, heading straight for the Great Hall. "No, it was just... something I dreamt."  
  
"Who has got the overactive imagination now?"  
  
The Great Hall was full of students when they got there, and the food had already appeared on the tables.  
  
"Who won the fight, then?" James asked, as they headed for a couple of empty chairs.  
  
"The Gryffindor team, of course. We had Hagrid on our side," Sirius grinned, and placed himself in a vacant chair next to Remus.  
  
James claimed the chair to Remus's right side, avoiding the quizzical look Remus sent him over Sirius's head.  
  
On the other side of the table, directly in front of Remus, sat Lily. She didn't look like she'd been outside at all that day; her cheeks possessed a healthy pink colour – unlike James's, which were red – , every hair was perfect, cascading over her shoulders in soft waves – it did not appear to have been ruffled by the slightest wind.  
  
James stared at her, while absently shovelling mashed potatoes from a huge bowl over to his plate. Finally, after about five scoops of mash, Lily looked back at him. When her gaze met his, James was positive that five oval marks, shaped exactly like her fingertips, came into sight on his right cheek, red and glowing. It must have been a dream, James realized, since Lily not – along with everyone else – seemed to notice anything unusually disfiguring with his appearance. Just a silly dream.  
  
He faced the pile of mashed potatoes in front of him for a second; longer than that he couldn't endure before needing to see if she still looked at him. To his great surprise, she did. When their eyes met for the second time, she gave him a small smile – and then she reached up and placed a small hand on her own cheek.  
  
That Christmas, James spent more time on trying to separate reverie from reality, than on his presents.

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Fin 


End file.
